


functions-data-physics

by redlight



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Awkward Crush, Crushes, Cute, Fluff, High School, Lipstick & Lip Gloss, M/M, Pining Keith (Voltron), Teen Romance, keith is a good singer and you can pry this headcanon from my cold dead hands, keith is pining and lance is pretty, lance is lowkey a mess, stressed teenagers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-05
Updated: 2017-11-05
Packaged: 2019-01-29 13:57:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12632463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redlight/pseuds/redlight
Summary: Lance is wearing lipstick.Keith doesn't notice at first.Well, in Keith’s defense, he was thinking too hard about everything else, and it's not like it's a bright color. Just a little glossy, little shimmery, eye-catching now that Keith has the opportunity to focus on it.And it's...reallypretty.





	functions-data-physics

**Author's Note:**

> hey yo im struggling with physics and this happened lol _please help me_
> 
> anyway this is just...high school. canadian high school. im projecting so hard, when am i?? not projecting at this point?? seriously, help

Lance is wearing lipstick.

Keith doesn't notice at first. Keith is actually gazing solemnly at the vocal room's door.

His name isn't on the list – and that's _okay_ , seriously. He auditioned, and he tried out, and he _practiced,_ and it was all for _fun_ and _he didn't get in_ and that's _fine_. So _what_ if Keith can't be part of the singing ensemble in his last year of high school? It’s alright. So _what_ if he's only worked up the nerve just now, after months – well, _years_ of Lance and Pidge and Hunk and Shiro encouraging him, _you're a great singer Keith, you should join something, you should try out, it'll be fun_!

Except, _except_ , sometimes Keith’s voice cracks, and sometimes he can't _look_ at the audience, and sometimes he goes too quiet because he can't _think_ or he’s thinking too _hard_ , can't figure out the lyrics and messes up the words and sometimes Keith’s a fucking _screw-up_ – 

But it's fine and it was for _fun_ and he didn't get in and _it's not like Keith needed to be busier_ , he's already up to his knees in math and science classes, because he doesn't _know_ where to go after high school and if he wants college or uni then at least he's got prerequisites for practically every program, right?

So. Yeah. Today, Keith isn't really noticing a lot of things. He didn't notice his name on the list, and he didn't notice his untied shoelaces before he tumbled down the stairs _spectacularly_ – unfortunately he didn't break his arm or leg or neck, and so he had to stay in school with his bruised up knees and bitten-bloodied lip. Which, _ugh_. Death is preferable to Data Management, honestly.

And Keith didn't notice that tomorrow is when his English paper's due – which, _fuck_ , he needs to _start_ that and English is his worst subject and he really, _really_ can't bomb this assignment. He’s trying to keep his grades up and he can get by in math and math and math and science, but when he's asked to tell a story or explain _why someone might feel like this_ or interpret or analyze or _whatever_ he just – blanks out.

It's not that he doesn't _like_ reading – because he does, he likes the poems with pretty words and flexible structures, he likes the different formats and the way letters can be arranged and _rearranged_ in instances of emotion and wordplay but –

But he can't – Keith can't _explain_ it.

So. He isn’t noticing a lot of things, today.

And he doesn't notice Lance's lipstick.

Well, in Keith’s defense, he was thinking too hard about _everything else_ , and it's not like it's a bright color. Just a little glossy, little shimmery, eye-catching now that Keith has the opportunity to focus on it. He finished his physics test ten minutes early and handed it in, and now he's drawing messy planets and stick figures onto scribbly sketchy half-moons. His drawing’s riddled with diameter estimates and radius measurements and bleary instances of the circumference equation. Blank printer paper that Keith keeps in his backpack just for the subjects he can finish early.

And it's math, it's _math_ – his entire semester is math (data management), math (functions), math (physics) and English. And it's Physics that he shares with _Lance_.

Lance, sitting a desk in front and a desk to the left, diagonal-across, distance about a meter and a half away from Keith. He’s still working on his test, slim fingers grasping at a pencil held up to tea-stained teeth and pretty, pretty lips. Rosy brown and shimmery.

 _That's_ when Keith notices.

It's actually – really subtle. The lipstick – or lipgloss, that is. But Lance _fidgets_ a lot, and twists his hands and taps his fingers and clicks his pens and chews on the eraser ends of his pencils, staining white erasers dark pink with sparkles. Lance lives in kinematics and marking schemes, brown eyelashes lowered as his eyes scan the paper, leg bouncing incessantly as his brows stay furrowed and his lips gleam that pretty brown pink. Dark precious caramel-coral pink. And he's so _focused_ and he’s flipping that pencil over in a twist of his elegant fingers, hissing under his breath as he frantically rubs out an answer.

Keith sighs, and it's almost dreamy, and Lance doesn't notice, because he's stuck in the lonely world of velocity questions and vector components and meter measurements and time in seconds.

And when Lance chews the lipstick off his lips – it's just _lipstick_ , but where'd he get it from, when did he put it on, is it one shade or two shades mixed together, and does it _taste_ like anything? Does it taste greasy and clear like chapstick, or warm and sticky and _sweet_ – ?

Keith bites the inside of his cheek and draws another shitty planet onto his printer paper. It's a mess, his art is a mess, of circles and rings and shitty stars outlined drearily with red pen. Shitty-but-decent-enough dollar-store red pens, sold in plastic bags by the bulk, 150-pack, so Keith can use them to draw planets and take notes and draw flowers and write ideas down and draw Lance and Lance’s pretty eyes and Lance’s pretty mouth and calculate math (functions-data-physics) equations all mixed up with lists of pretty poetry words he likes. 

Everything’s in red pen, ink bleeding when his hand brushes across the writing. So much _red_ so Keith contemplates getting another color. Black, ‘cause it’s useful. Blue. Dark _navy casual_ blue, for test-writing, and light _Lance’s eye color_ blue, for notes. 

Keith’s not startled when the bell rings, 'cause he's not caught off guard, but Lance – 

Lance jerks up, pencil end and fingernails smeared with pink from how much he was biting at them. Blue eyes dart to the clock, then to the page, then to the worn calculator resting lazily on his desk, and Lance – _flinches_. Haphazardly adds a few more numbers and lines and graphs to his test as he flips through the booklet one more time, smiles wearily at the teacher (he’s actually a really sweet, if eccentric, teacher, redheaded and weird-accented and a bit absent-minded but excitable and constantly complimenting the alien-head button Keith keeps on his backpack, the one Pidge gave to him.)

And Lance – his brows furrow and he bites at his lips nervously, the shimmer now worn and faded. His feet are tapping in a rush but his shoulders are slumped and he looks – _distressed_.

Disappointed, maybe a little sad. He rubs at his mouth with his fingertips, bites at his nails anxiously. 

“Um,” Keith starts awkwardly, as the class starts to file out, sudden ramblings about the test rising up through the air as the few still-seated students duck their heads down over their still-unfinished tests. And Lance is gathering his stuff, one foot tapping nervously and soundlessly, and Keith says, “How was that? The test.”

Lance barks out a laugh – quiets when the teacher shoots him a glance. “Honestly? Terrible.”

“Oh,” says Keith. Lance’s laugh rings in his ears, though – bitter and raspy and discouraged. 

It doesn't – sound good. Doesn't feel nice to listen to, isn't loud and breathy and sky-high-cloudy like Lance’s laugh usually is. Makes Keith’s mouth twitch into a frown.

Lance has one backpack strap over his shoulder and is walking purposefully out the door, into the diminishing rush of people outside, and Keith almost trips over his feet to follow.

“Um,” Keith says, taking another glance at Lance’s furrowed eyebrows and smeared-bitten mouth. “I really like your lipstick.”

Lance – he pauses, his stare darting towards Keith with worldwide eyes and Earth-blue irises. “My – huh?” 

And – it's really cute, how Lance quickly presses two fingertips to his lips and gazes down at his shimmer-stained skin when he pulls them away. “ – oh. Oh!”

“Yeah,” Keith says, trying to act as though his gaze hasn't been glued to Lance’s mouth for, like, the past thirty minutes. 

“I forgot,” Lance admits, looking at Keith sheepishly. His eyelashes flutter, long as lightyears and shining gray in the school hallway’s shitty lighting. “Um – thank you!”

“Uh.” Keith smiles awkwardly. He's trying his best, honestly. “Yeah, no problem. It looks really good.”

Lance’s cheeks go just a little pink, pretty rosy-brown, and Keith ducks his head to hide how his grin widens. Cute. So, _so_ cute.

“Thank you,” Lance says again, pressing his lips together like he's trying to keep Keith’s eyes on him – not that he has to try, actually – “O-oh, and hey, you should join choir! I think their first practice is this Wednesday, you should sign up!”

Keith blinks. “But – ” _But he didn't get in_ – 

“Shush, I know you didn't get into the ensemble or whatever.” Lance punches him lightly on the shoulder, gives Keith a beaming grin. “This is different! Go for concert choir. I’ll go with you! Or drag Shiro along, ‘cause _apparently_ he can't sing, while _you_ sound like an angel, so, I dunno, moral support – ”

 _You sound like an angel_.

Keith’s heart does not, absolutely _does not_ pop out of his chest and literally race off into the distance, dodging the dragging footsteps of tired high school students. Maybe it _feels_ like it, but that is absolutely not happening. Probably. Hopefully.

Keith resists the urge to palm at his chest and check, just in case, that his heart is still inside his rib-cage.

“Okay,” Keith says dumbly. “Uh – thank you.”

Lance just keeps _grinning_ at him. “No problem, mullet-man. Now I gotta get to class – ” A quick, brown-skinned hand is darting out to ruffle Keith’s hair, and then it's gone in a millisecond. “See ya later!”

And he's _gone_ , blue eyes and blue backpack and pink lipstick disappearing down the halls into shrinking masses of people and into a classroom somewhere.

Keith stares after him, threads his fingers through his own hair to see if Lance left any of that lipstick-shimmer there ( _oh, he wouldn't even be able to see it, though_ – ) and then Keith clutches at his chest.

The bell rings, signaling the next period, but seriously, it's all fine, Keith’s heart is still inside his body, tucked safely between his lungs. This is fine. Everything is fine.

He’s definitely signing up for that choir practice on Wednesday, though, so there's that.

**Author's Note:**

> talk to me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/REDSPACELIGHTS)!


End file.
